


Tear Yourself Apart To Entertain

by WinterAssets



Series: Badlands Inspired Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Blood Drinking, F/M, Only a small scene of it at the end of the actual drinking, Reader-Insert, Reader-Interactive, but it's mentioned throughout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:40:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5245262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterAssets/pseuds/WinterAssets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He's so tired of cleansing himself for the world. He's so tired of pretending that he can save Dean like so many times before. He's so tired of hunting, of killing demons. He's tired of searching at the wrong ends of the state while Dean laughs his way through bars with his new best friend, the King of Hell.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> <i>Sam's tired. Sam's empty. And Sam's desperate.</i></p>
<p> OR</p>
<p>The one where Sam's so tired of focusing on Dean, focusing on getting him back, and takes matters into his own hands when a certain craving starts crawling up his spine once again. It just so happens that you're an old friend of Ruby's, and all you want is to see the Winchester relax; you've always been a sucker for puppy eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Yourself Apart To Entertain

The first time Sam sees you is in a bar, a ridiculously themed karaoke night, and he’s half lit out of his brain to actually be caught dead in a slum like this.

The bar is entirely too loud, that’s about the first thing that the youngest Winchester notices. It makes his head ache in ways that it hasn’t in other towns, but he can’t walk away now. He’s already set his foot in the door and the bartender is already smiling at him, seemingly shocked to see someone that seems to be out from the normal crowd. It’ll make him feel horrendous if he leaves after he sees that hopeful look on the man’s face. He moves into the bar and pushes the annoying grime that fills his mind away, a confident look in place as he grabs a beer and tries to forget just how he’s gotten this far down on the food chain.

Even Dean used to pick up better spots, spots where it didn’t look like it was a hole in the wall and a dump.

A familiar ache forms in his chest at the thought of the hunter, his lips pursing slightly as his eyes stare unseeingly towards the small stage that’s set up. His stomach clenches unevenly and he can feel that familiar hitch in his throat, but he pushes it down as far as it can go. He has every right to he reasons with himself on a daily basis, because if he doesn’t, he’s never going to find Dean. He doesn’t care if it’ll be the death of him or that Dean doesn’t want to be found; it’s Sam’s  _duty_  to find him, doesn’t care if his brother is a demon. He can cure that.

He’s cured demon’s before, and the thought of the trial is still fresh in his mind, and he’s still seeing Crowley’s eyes staring back at him as he weeps for humanity. He sees him clearly laying in the bed in a motel, high off of human blood and ignoring his responsibilities as Abaddon takes over hell. It leaves an uncanny feeling in his stomach, and he pushes it away as quickly as he can.

His eyes slip along the bar, trying to push it all away as he breathes in deep through his nose. It scrunches immediately after; he’s smelled some pretty bad things before, but this takes the cake. It’s a mixture of urine and beer and bleach, and all he wants is to  _get the fuck out of there_.

But he doesn’t; it’s like a punishment for him that he has to take as he sits there and stares at the stage. There’s two screens set up behind him, something that has his curiosity peaked until he sees the small machine in front of it. Frowning, he feels that familiar tug of nostalgia and wonders if they have a lot classic rock stocked up on it. Dean would never admit it out loud, but he had gotten beyond drunk and gotten up on stages like that when they were younger, so much more carefree then they had turned out to be.

It’s not the first time Sam wonders what it would’ve been like if he would’ve stayed at Stanford, if he hadn’t gone with Dean, if he hadn’t lost Jess. He knows now though that it’s a moot argument; he was chosen from the beginning of time and he would have never escaped it, just gone through it on his own.

And that’s something that leaves a black hole in Sam Winchester, even when he finishes off his beer and hopes that it’ll be filled for a few moments. It isn’t, it never is – it’s all consuming and it’s never satisfied.

A loud booming noise catches his attention and his eyes shift back into focus, pushing the memories away as he orders another beer. He’s there now and he doesn’t want to go back to his motel, doesn’t want to strip and shower and wash this place away at the moment. It’s a scummy dive and that’s what he needs right now.

That’s something that’s not normal for him and that’s what he  _needs_  right now.

A girl is taking the stage and his eyebrows rise slightly. She’s decked out in entirely too much make up, the kind where you know it’s for theatrical showing. She bends down and selects something on the machine, a wide smile on her face before an upbeat dance number begins to fill the crappy speakers of the bar. A few men down by the stage hoot and holler at the girl, and Sam can’t help but roll his eyes. It’s obvious from the way she flails her hand at them and her cheeks heat up under the lights and layers of blush that they’re her friends, giving her a confidence booster, or at least attempting to. She looks uncomfortable though, and he leans back against the counter that’s chipping.

Your hip thrusts at the appropriate times nearly have a smile slipping onto his features, and it’s a feeling that’s so foreign to him that he almost reaches up and touches the edges of his lips in shock. He stops his hand mid air and stares at the girl as she smiles and moves with the song like it’s embedded in her DNA. She doesn’t have a horrible voice, but she’s not totally on tone either, but it’s obvious that she’s not doing it as a profession. She’s doing it because she wants to have fun, and that’s something of a concept that Sam’s so distant with that it punches him straight in the chest.

When was the last time he had even had any form of fun? Biting down on his lip, he watches as the girl ends the song with a sheepish look on her face and bows, loud laughter erupting from her lips as she tries to set the microphone down. It’s loud and buzzes back, and the entire bar laughs this time as her cheeks heat up. She looks peaceful though and at ease with it, like she’s made that mistake a thousand times and it’s part of her charm.

She heads off the stage and smiles at her friends, sitting down next to them once more as they clap her on the back. She turns in her chair though slightly, and her eyes meet Sam, and Sam just  _knows_.

You’re going to be the  _death_  of him.

* * *

The first time you meet Sam isn’t at the bar; it’s at a small coffee shop where you work. Your fingers are whipping through orders and your heads starting to hurt from remembering so many people’s names without caffeine in your  _own_  system. The sharpie is set between your teeth as you work on another order, a soft hum in your throat along with the soft music that’s playing over the loudspeakers, and you can feel the hangover staring in from another night at the dive.

You don’t know what the actual name is; you’ve passed that point a long time ago. The sign was cracked and falling in too, so it seemed to just fit. Your just shrug your shoulders every time your friends want to go; you’re good with it, the beer is cheap and so is the cheap speakers that you always flaunt through. Plus the have a Rocky Horror Picture Show night each month, and your friends have quickly discovered that it’s the easiest way to get you to just unwind. It makes you thankful for them really; sometimes you can’t stand being around so many hipsters in one room.

You notice the mysterious boy from the dive though almost instantly. It makes your heart jump in your chest and up into your throat; was he stalking you now? You hadn’t even talked to him at the bar a week ago. You had just merely locked eyes and that was it. He appeared in the bar two times after that, but he looked too preoccupied to care. But even now you realize how stupid you’re being; he’s merely got his laptop out and a notebook sprawled across the table, his hand moving fast as his eyes jot from the paper to the screen.

You shake your head and go back to work; he’s not even come up for coffee yet and you know you’ll have to nudge him and tell him that he needs to order something in order to work, but you can’t bring yourself to do it.

You wait until you’re relieved for your shift; you head out the back door and let your manager take care of it, trying to ignore the guilt that seeps through your body as you hear the scrambling that you’re so familiar with.

* * *

Sam can’t get over this case; more efficiently he can’t get over the fact that he can’t find any clue that Dean was here, yet every demon he finds, every demon he drives the knife into, says that they’ve seen him. They just smile though and tell them they’ll never tell, and that makes Sam more angry than it should; it makes him desperate. It makes him want to know, makes him  _want_  to tear them to bits and pieces and watch them bleed, watch them  _scream_.

It makes his guts twist and makes him want a hit of something more, something so much more  _powerful_  that he hasn’t touched in years, since he killed Lilith. The revelation of it makes his stomach hurt and he immediately leans over the side of the Impala and vomits on the street that he’s on. He hears a few bystanders groan and complain, but his body doesn’t even pay attention.

It doesn’t let him.

All he can picture is the deep, dark blood and Ruby’s lips, upturned in a smirk as he sucks and bites down, takes her for all she’s worth because that’s who he is, that’s what he  _needs_. He was gearing up for  _war_  and he needed that extra boost, and he still remembers the power that floods through his veins the moment his eyes go black, the moment he chokes the life out of the demon that’s trying to slip into someone’s body.

The memories of it resurface so fast that Sam slams his back hard against the door of the Impala as his eyes go wide. He never thought he could resurface that feeling, much less crave the demon blood like he had before.

But now he is, his body remembers, and he needs it  _right fucking now or he’s going to die_.

It’s the only time in his life that he’s felt in control, that he’s felt powerful and like he was meant to be this hunter and in the life. It makes his head spin and his stomach contracts nervously once more, and then suddenly the sound rushes back around him. Wide eyed and surprised, Sam looks around and feels like he’s been exposed, like everyone knows his secret and is going to look at him differently now, and it makes everything in him hurt, ache,  _need_.

Sam slams the door to the Impala closed after he drags his body back into the drivers seat. He’s breathing heavy and his head feels foggy, uneven, and all he wants to do is cry. He’s overcome by the whirlwind of emotions that slip through his body but Castiel’s warned him of this, warned him that running after someone who doesn’t want to be found would catch up with him. He knew better than anyone that if you didn’t want to be found, you would hide as well as a chameleon in the scenery around him.

His fingers fumble with the keys, his breathing erratic as he tries to remember the inner workings of breathing. He can’t though; he’s panicking, choking on his own need for Ruby, for wanting to go back to those months when it was simple, back before Dean made his way up from Hell and this whole business of hunting extended into a new level. He needs those nights right now like he needs the air to breathe, and it’s suffocating knowing that he can’t have them; Ruby’s gone and any demon would be foolish to trust a Winchester.

Sam lets out a frustrated scream, pressing his face to the steering wheel and inhaling the scent of worn leather. He can’t do this anymore, he  _can’t_. He can’t keep looking for Dean on empty, and he needs something, a fix, a craving, needs to scratch an _itch_  that’s been in his veins for so long.

He’s so tired of cleansing himself for the world. He’s so tired of pretending that he can save Dean like so many times before. He’s so tired of hunting, of killing demons. He’s tired of searching at the wrong ends of the state while Dean laughs his way through bars with his new best friend, the King of Hell.

Sam’s tired. Sam’s empty. And Sam’s  _desperate_.

He drives back to the dive, his breath rattling against his ribs and he knows he’s not looking for a drink. He’s looking for the one thing he’d never thought he’d see in his life; a demon that could assimilate to every day life to the point of appearing human. Ruby had tried it but she had been foolish, had gotten out of the life, came back in, and reacted as if everything would be fine. But it wasn’t; she was merely just a ringleader, leading him to break a seal, and his veins heat up at the mere thought of the knife going through her body in the sheer anger he had as he held her.

Shaking his head, he returns his thoughts to something he knows; research. He had been researching you for some time; he knew this moment would come. He had planned to knife you and move on, but then he had seen you at the bar. You were so human like that he almost missed it, almost missed the second your eyes turned black as you stared at him, then moved back to your friends. It had haunted his mind for days, just sitting there, recoiling and pushing forward, and Sam was half convinced that he was going crazy. But then he had seen it again at the coffee shop, when a customers body had been turned and you had to remake their order. You couldn’t hold back your rage for a moment but then you gained your composure; he knew that you were slipping.

And he knew it was on  _purpose_. You wanted him to see you. You wanted him to come to you.

You wanted to play cat and mouse, and God, did Sam just want to  _devour_  you down and be done with it all.

His feet carried him into the dive bar, the bartender greeting him by name now. Sam just shoots him a small smile and heads straight to the back corner where you’re sat a table, a small smirk set on your features as you stare up at his approaching form. You have to admit, his regular attire is a bit more intimidating than the federal agent suit that all the other demons have stated that he wears.  

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out,” you murmur when he gets close enough to hear, your arms splayed behind you and cupping the worn material of the seats.

Sam’s eyes are dark, intense, his body fighting through so many emotions that he’s not sure which one to act on first. “You wanted me to see you. You wanted me to know.”

A smile lights up your face now, one that overtakes it and you nod your head. You pull your arms back to yourself, taking the invitation to join you away as you stand up. Sam’s eyes trail yours and then down your body, and your eyes roam him eagerly. “You can say an old friend sent me, said you were getting a little itchy. It’s been a long time, Sam.”

Sam’s brows furrow in confusion for a moment before the realization hits him fast and hard, and he feels like the breath’s been sucked straight from his lungs. “You know Ruby.”

“She’s not doing so good, she’s locked away pretty tight.” Shrugging your shoulders, you merely move around the table and set your hands on his biceps. Sam’s eyes don’t leave yours, but you can see it between his eyes, right in the way that he tries to read you to the core and struggles to realize what he really needs.

He needs to refuel, he needs to get better, and he needs it  _bad_.

You say nothing else, just let your smile drop to a plaint smirk, and grab his hand. His cups yours without thinking about it, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. You squeeze it tightly and begin to walk out of the dive, heading towards the Impala as you feel nerves start up in your stomach. You aren’t on a mission; Ruby didn’t send you there to destroy Sam’s life or give him a fix.

_You_  wanted this just as much as Sam wanted to scratch that itch that was flowing through his body. He wasn’t intimidating anymore; the minute you had looked at him in the bar you realized how broken he was, how much of a kicked puppy that he had turned into.

He wasn’t the great Sam Winchester; he was just a desperate boy trying to find his brother.

This wasn’t what you had planned when you had thought up of helping him. You had full intentions to just help him, to see if you could hear any chatter through the demons, and maybe spare yourself a knife through the stomach. But he was a broken down piece of glass laying for the garbage man to take, and you couldn’t leave him there.

Call yourself a sucker for puppy eyes; it was your weakness in life and it still was in death.

Sam barely breathes as you lead him, his hand is squeezing yours tighter and tighter, silently begging you to ground him as he attempts to float himself away. His head’s spinning and uncertain and he knows he shouldn’t do this, but you’re so damn  _alluring_ and he needs a break.

He needs to be controlled.

He needs to feel like he’s  _in_  control, and this is the only way that Sam knows.

* * *

His motel is more run down than yours and you frown at it. There isn’t many classy places in  the town though, so you let it slide, you don’t complain. Rain’s hammering down outside and you know a storm is going to come rolling in soon, and you can feel that ache down in your bones when he doesn’t turn the light on.

There’s a streetlight outside though that’s shining through the window, and you turn around, just able to make out his features. He’s standing there, hair matted to his head and looking lost, needy, like he doesn’t know what the hell to do, and you feel something in you lurch.

You move forward and grab his hand, pulling him backwards toward the bed as he pulls in a sharp breath through his nose. Before you can ask if he’s backing out, his lips are hot and heavy on yours, a moan escaping your throat at the feeling of the warmth of his skin on yours mixes with the dampness of the rain that is on both of your clothes.

His tongue coaxes at your mouth, desperately trying to open it and dive in deeper, to make you feel, to make you  _open up_  because he needs to feel this so fucking  _bad._ You don’t deny him, easily opening your mouth and letting him in, the kiss messy and toxic; his teeth are knocking against yours and it’s all biting at lips and desperation for some form of control of the situation. It escapes you both though, and your fingers are gripping at his coat, desperate to shrug it off of his shoulders. He reaches his arms behind him and lets it drop to the floor, a pleasant fuzzy feeling flowing through your head as his hands grip your hips and push you down hard onto the bed.

You let out a soft laugh as you bounce on the bed and bite at your lip; Sam’s standing over you and breathing heavily, his eyes dark and unsure. Your own eyes soften and you reach forward, grabbing his hand and pulling him down. Sam lets out a soft sigh and lets his body fall between your legs, his nose moving into the crook of your neck. Your fingers run through his damp locks and he bites down on his lip, a frustrated breath leaving his lips.

“It’s okay to give in, Sam,” you whisper quietly, and his head turns to look at you, nothing but the utmost vulnerability seeping onto his features. He looks like he’s going to pass out and you give him a small smile, unsure of where this will go in the future of if he’ll be okay. But for now he needs something, needs to be grounded, and you can read it in his eyes that he needs this all, needs to be controlled, needs to  _fall_.

You reach into his back pocket and pull his switchblade out, a small roll of your eyes following your actions as he looks at you bewildered. You lightly shove at his shoulder and he lets you up, pulling in a deep breath as you bring the blade down to your arm. Pressing it in, you watch his eyes as the blood pools to the surface; they’re blown wide and you know this is going to lead down a bad path for him but you can’t turn back.

He looks too scared, like he’s going to fall apart, and you can’t let that happen. Not to someone who’s as important as Sam Winchester.

Reaching up, you grab the back of his neck and pull him down, his lips coming in contact with your skin immediately and sucking. You pull in a sharp breath, your fingers coming through Sam’s strands as you let out a slow sigh, letting the entire situation wash over you.

Sam only does it for a few minutes, then his forehead presses against your arm and you pull in a softer breath. He’s breathing so shallowly but you know it’s of satisfaction, especially by the way his body relaxes underneath your touch.

“You’re meant for great things, Sam Winchester,” you murmured quietly, softly tugging at the strands. Sam makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat. “You’ve got to stop running yourself so low.”

“What does Hell want from me this time?” His voice is relaxed and cracks, but there’s a certain tiredness in his eyes that tugs at your stomach again,

Shaking your head, you let your fingers massage at the nape of his neck. “I didn’t come here on Hell’s orders. I haven’t gone by Hell’s orders in a very, very long time.”

A look of interest passes in his eyes, and Sam bites down on his lip. “Why are you doing this? Trying to assimilate and pass as a human?”

Chuckling, you reach out and press some hair behind his ear. “The same reason you do; I’m just trying to live.”

Sam debates your answer silently, but you watch as his eyes grow heavy. A slight smile slips onto your features and you make to get out of bed. His hand stops you though, pulling you back down, and you allow your body to relax against the mattress.

Sam’s arm remains around your waist as his breathing starts to go even, his head a fuzzy mess of _shouldn’t have done that_  and  _needing to do that again and again_.

Sam knows he’s screwing up again, that Dean would have his head for this, and so would Bobby. But he’s not jump starting another apocolypse, and his brother and Bobby are essentially dead.

He’s run low enough. He needs something – they all had something. He needs everything and it makes him bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. His head aches and so do his muscles, but a pleasant fuzzy feeling is floating through his veins.

Let Dean come for him, let him try to bring down his wrath with his new best friend.

But for now, Sam is learning what it’s like to refuel, and he’s breathing in deeper, letting the flooded blissful blackness fill his vision.

Because for once he’s focusing on himself, and for once, he’s doing what needs to be done, no questions asked and no worries about who’ll burn him if he does.


End file.
